


find the map and draw a straight line

by Lunarwolfik



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarwolfik/pseuds/Lunarwolfik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MoMo's a vindictive son of a bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	find the map and draw a straight line

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_50states/profile)[**spn_50states**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_50states/). Title from Snow Patrol's [Set The Fire To The Third Bar](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/snowpatrol/setthefiretothethirdbar.html). Huge thanks to [](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://poisontaster.livejournal.com/)**poisontaster** for her fantastic beta.

It's July and they're in Louisiana, Missouri in the middle of a fucking heat wave. Dean's clothes are sticking to his back (have been since somewhere around country road number whatever the fuck), sweat's dripping down his chest in small rivulets, and each breath he takes is full of sweltering choking heat. Sam's floppy ass hair looks heavy and soaked, wilting in a chunky mess against his neck, and he looks about as miserable as Dean feels. They're running low on cash and credit cards so they're stuck in the one motel room in the whole blessed US of A that doesn't have fucking _air conditioning_. The manager swipes at his lips and says, "Sorry fellas but we've been calling the AC guy for a week and haven't heard a peep. I hope this is okay," giving them the key to a room with the saddest excuse of a floor fan Dean's ever seen, all brown blades and tiny whirring motor with mesh cage that catches his shins every damn time he walks by it.

The room's just like the fan: ugly, brown, and useless. Mold's collecting in the corners, the wallpaper's peeling and the bedspreads are the awfulest shade of yellow Dean's ever seen. But it's not all bad; the tap's cold, the TV works, and, hey, there's even a remote.

Sam calls first dibs on the shower, the bastard, so Dean's stuck on the bed, flipping through late night reruns, bad sci-fi movies with mammoths and the Invisible Man, and infomercials with smiling people who swear that all he needs for his life to be complete is a veggie slicer and dicer. Dean kicks off his shoes, stretches out lazy like, and takes in the smell of Missouri: dusty, bitter, and a little bit like nutmeg if he concentrates.

He's lost his shirt by the time George Foreman appears and is already down to the boxers when Georgie-boy starts showing off his fabulous new rotisserie. When Sam's finally done with the shower, The Who's Greatest Hits are up for a low nineteen bucks and Dean's out like a light.

***

 

It isn't the first time they've been to Missouri; hell, it's not even their fifth, and it's just like every other state: bad roadside diners with loose waitresses and the world's greatest apple pie.

Dean's in the middle of his toast, bacon and eggs (he gave in and got one of those veggie omelets, cause he'll be damned if he's going to listen to Sam bitch about cholesterol again; it isn't like he chugs grease from a twelve-ounce pitcher or something, he eats vegetables, just when he damn well feels like it) when Sam tosses the paper at him and says, "Mysterious Elmo Makes Mischief."

Dean swallows hard, toast going down rough and scraping the roof of his mouth.

"What?" He finally gets out, confused, 'cause it sure as hell sounded like Sammy just said-- "Dude, they're being attacked by a Tickle Me Elmo doll?"

Sam rolls his eyes and taps at the headline.

"_MoMo_," and Dean swears he can hear that extra capital, "The Missouri Monster," Sam says, exasperated and wow, it's not even nine o'clock; that's gotta be a new record.

Dean scans the front page, familiar words like "unknown mystery" and "unbelievable" leaping out at him.

"They even have a photo in the continued section," Sam adds between a mouthful of pancakes. Dean unfolds the paper, grumbling when it starts bunching up along the seam and not wanting to cooperate. Sam grins around his fork at him like he was expecting that, but he doesn't say a word. When Dean finally gets the paper fixed, it's an image of --

"Dude, it's a picture of a blur." The photo's grainy black and white (obviously they have a cheap distributor) with sharp contrasts and deep ugly shadows where the trees should be. There's a foot…and an arm…and maybe a head if you squinted…and tilted your head at a forty-five degree angle. "Okay, correction. It's a picture of a monster shaped blur."

"Says there was an incident back in '72, same MO and everything. Dad even has it marked in his journal." Sam turns the book towards Dean and points at some clippings. A couple found dead in their car, (official report: asphyxiation; local's report: monster) the guy's clothing stacked neat as you please twenty feet back from the bumper. Some college kids complaining about "a hairy ape that smelled like a skunk" on that same stretch of road, and the last about an outbreak of supposed MoMo related dog snatchings. Dad's spidery handwriting's scrawled all over everything, circling this and that, underlining in bright red.

"Seems like the thing's been pretty quiet in between," Dean says, scanning the obits for anything related.

"Yep, 'til now. Know what today is?"

"International Pick on Sammy Day?" Dean asks hopefully, making a swipe for one of Sam's few remaining bacon slices.

"No," Sam says, smacking Dean's grabby hands with his fork. "It's the thirty-third anniversary since its first sighting."

"So, what, we got a monkey man with a jonsin' for voodoo and numerology?"

"Or maybe the thing just hibernates."

"Dad's journal doesn't have anything from thirty-three years prior to the first sighting."

"Which means maybe something woke it up."

"Like what?"

Dean pauses, waiting for Sam to answer but Sam doesn't say anything, just scrunches a little bit in his seat and does his best to not look shifty.

"You don't know, do you?" Dean asks, playful smile already curling his lips.

"I'm working on it."

"Well, looks like that college education's payin' off real nice there, Sammy."

Sam just glares a little bit and throws a straw wrapper at him. Dean laughs.

***

 

"How is that when Missouri finally has somethin' good going for it -- its very own freakin' Sasquatch -- they gotta go and ruin it by calling it freakin' MoMo? What the hell kind of name is that?"

Sam shrugs, kicking up dust along the dirt trail. It's barely wide enough for the two of them to walk comfortably side by side, but it's in the neighborhood of where MoMo'd been last sighted, winding through the forest in crooked 'S's' before heading back to the main road.

Dean's head buzzes from the heat and his shirt is already soaked through. The dust and sun are making his hackles rise up and he really fucking hates Missouri.

"I mean, they could've at least put some thought into it, like the Jersey Devil or the Jackalope. Now _that's_ a good name," Dean mutters, stepping around a pothole that could seriously twist an ankle.

"Look, does it really matter what the thing's called if it's climbing fences and eating dogs?" Sam asks, stopping to give Dean one of those looks that he's been perfecting since he was thirteen. It's somewhere between _I can't believe this_, and _Are you seriously going to eat the whole pizza by yourself?_ Dean ignores him and keeps walking.

"Chihuahuas aren't really dogs Sammy, they're just dog-shaped rats," Dean points out, taking the first step off the path into the heavy underbrush. Sam follows him, not answering, probably rolling his eyes at him. Sam could be so fucking _sensitive_ about some things.

The woods aren't much to look at. Scraggled half dead branches hang loosely from pine and birch and the ground is covered in a thick layer of underbrush that scratches at his jeans and makes him think depressingly of the hour it's gonna take to get the damn beggar's lice off. But at least in all that debris, MoMo's sure gonna leave a trail.

Dean finds it in twenty minutes -- claw-shaped prints that are so deep, they practically tear the tree in two. The paw is _huge_, at least bigger than Sam's by a foot and that's saying something. The claws are something like two or three inches long from the sunken shape of them and even if there are no full fledged footprints, Dean's pretty sure they'd be bigger than his head.

"Hey Sam, found it." Dean motions at the wounded tree as he sidles up beside him. Sam lightly touches the markings, fingers skimming over the edges, tracing each dip and curve, thumb pressing into the slight groove between the first and middle finger, and…

"Sam, you might wanna stop fondling the--"

Dean cuts himself off and slams into Sam's side just as a monstrous paw swipes for his brother's head.

MoMo hits Dean instead, claws catching on his shirt and tearing into his skin, and he has just enough time to think _okay, OW_, before gravity figures back into the equation and he and Sam hit the ground rolling. Dean feels the slick of metal on skin, oh fuck, and his gun goes flying god knows where. When they finally stop, he's landed them into a thicket of blue flowers and, oh _fuck_, thorns.

They both start struggling. Dean pushes upward, trying to get some leverage, while Sam tries to untangle his stupid shaggy head. His long arms bat at Dean's shoulders, trying push him _off_, but the briars just dig in deeper, hooking into his already torn flesh and pushing him back in to Sam.

Suddenly, a giant splash of something wet hits his back. It's thick and gooey and spreads out, permeating his shirt and clinging to his shoulder blades and it feels a lot like saliva.

He can't move.

He doesn't even have a gun to shoot the bastard once he's out anyway, but still-

"Dean, what the hell-" Sam's still flailing, trying to escape, but Dean's nothing more than deadweight and Sam just ends up securing himself even more firmly in the briars' grip. They're sitting ducks.

"Shut up Sammy; that thing's right above us and I can't move," Dean hisses into Sam's ear. The forest is silent and the sound of the stupid MoMo's heavy breathing, no, _gurgling_, pounds in his ears.

A large snuffling noise sounds from above them and Dean is hit with the smell of fucking _death_. Sam gags and Dean's barely holding his own lunch when tiny drops of blood or, god, more drool drip on to his head. They curl around his ear, sluggishly trail down his jaw, and hit Sam's collar in splashes of crimson on white.

Okay, not drool.

Sam's half turned, not able to look Dean straight on, but his eyes flick upwards, silently questioning. Dean nods his head the tiniest fraction, and has just enough time to see Sam start reaching for his gun before blood slides right into his eyes.

He blinks and his eyes start stinging like a motherfucker. He can't see a goddamn thing now and the fucking Apeman is still snorfling above them like a Saint Bernard and he can't _move_ and how could he have lost his _gun_, for Chrissake.

Suddenly, MoMo cuts off mid-snuffle and _bellows_, shaking trees and rattling Dean's chest, and yeah, he's pretty sure it found them. He feels Sam shift, gun already in hand when MoMo's claws start ripping through the briars like a fucking weed whacker.

A paw smashes into Dean's side, sending him flying, and before he has time to think about it, there's the blessed sound of a gunshot.

The thing squeals, high pitched and angry. But he can still hear it thrashing in the brush.

Another shot rings out and Dean has no idea what the fuck is going on, blind and immobile on the ground.

"Sam?" Nothing. "Sam!"

"I'm okay." Thank God.

Large cool fingers are suddenly on his face, wiping at his eyes and smearing warm trails against his skin. His vision's blurred but it's enough to make out the concerned look Sam's giving him, fingers continuing to rake across Dean's cheek and forehead, smoothing blood and dirt away.

The forest is deathly quiet.

MoMo's gone.

***

 

The coverlet is scratchy and his back is on fucking _fire_.

"Let me see."

Dean's on his stomach, cool air hitting him full in the face while the fan whirs along in front of him from it's new nightstand perch, cheerfully ignorant of the image presented before it. Sam's straddling his hips, armed with tweezers, bandages, and aloe vera, while his fingers ghost along Dean's skin, lightly assessing the damage.

The drool was glued to him like a second skin; it took an hour to get off, leaving his back tingling and sensitive. At least he could freaking move after that shit was gone though. The thorns, on the other hand, are still there. He feels them, foreign and undeniable, like killer ants marching two by two, each one throbbing in swift staccato beats under patches of reddened skin.

Fucking MoMo and it's fucking burning drool of death.

"Hold still," Sam grumbles as he pries at the loose skin and it _burns_.

His fingers are like live coals, hot and rough. The cool metal of the tweezers twist and pull in Dean's skin and he can't help his involuntary gasp.

"You okay?"

"Fucking peachy," Dean grumbles. Sam shifts his weight, knee bumping into Dean's rib and foot catching on a pant leg.

When Sam starts applying the bandages, his hands linger on Dean's neck and shoulder a little bit longer than they have any right to.

***

 

Dean can't sleep. He's fitful, restless. His back is driving him crazy, itching and raw. The fan's doing little to ease the heat -- actually it's not doing much at all -- and Sam's been murmuring in his sleep since the second his head hit the pillow. Dean's hot and sweaty and he can still feel the press of his brother's fingers on his skin.

Dean _really_ fucking hates Missouri.

***

 

In the morning, a couple's found dead on the side of the road. The official report claims a wild bear attacked them.

Dean's eyes go dark and Sam clenches his jaw.

MoMo's going down.

***

 

They go in packing: sawed off shotguns, consecrated iron rounds, army knives, holy water, the whole nine yards. There's no way in hell Dean's letting MoMo get away this time.

It's early and the light's dusky. It's cool -- well cool_er_ \-- and the promise of rain is tickling the back of his throat. He knows the heavy clouds are all talk and no game. By midday it's going to a hundred degrees and he's going to feel like a cooked chicken but they'll be on the road again anyway, eating blacktop and chasing freedom.

The smell hits him first. He stops Sam with a hand, motioning towards a dark hulking shape a few yards ahead of them. Sam nods.

Dean circles to the left, Sam goes right.

The ground around MoMo is littered with half-eaten meals of both human and animal alike. It's crunching on a bone and looking for all the world like a dope-eyed half-addled cud-chewing cow. Well, if that dope-eyed half-addled cud-chewing cow craved the taste of human flesh that is.

The thing's really tall, taller than Sam by a long shot, and its brown-black fur is matted with leaves and twigs. It scratches at its side where Sam grazed it before with one giant paw, razor sharp claws catching the morning light. There's dried blood on its jaws and its beady little eyes are nearly swallowed up by a huge misshapen nose.

It's the ugliest thing Dean's ever seen.

He looks at Sam and holds up three fingers.

One -- he shifts the gun in his hand, grip tight and familiar -- two -- Sam shakes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes and looks so much like MoMo for a second that Dean can't help but smile -- _three_.

MoMo goes down after two shots.

It's dead in five.

***

 

"That a cousin of yours, Sam?"

"Shut up, Dean."

"I mean, he had that vacant-eyed stare _down_."

"Shut _up_, Dean."

"And the hair, man, the hair. Swear it was like I was seeing double."

"Dean, if you don't shut up I will--"

"You'll what, drool on me too?"

"I hate you."

***

 

They cross the Mississippi on a Tuesday, the long lazy river stretching out before them like smooth blue-black marble, sparkling and incandescent. Dean has the window rolled down, air conditioning not doing a damn thing but sputtering uselessly since New Mexico. Sam's asleep beside him, head tucked against the door, scrunched up and uncomfortable looking.

Dean has the urge to offer Sam a shoulder, let his brother lay his head on something softer than a car door but all he can think of is Sam's breath hot on his neck and gentle hands on his face and--

He keeps driving.


End file.
